Some mornings are fine. Six hours sleep, wheatgrass, coffee & crunch cereal, brisk walk down the hill, my wrecked shoes filling with rainwater. Then into reception, past the chatty young trainees to swipe my card past all the security doors, put my phone on mute and my coat on the rack.
Log in with 30 seconds to spare. I’ve got it worked out now. Then wait for the first call.
A ding in my ear. Actress’s voice – “Customer services.” Ding, ding, one, two, “Good morning, you’re through to James in customer services, can I confirm that you’re the principal cardholder?”
And so on. Take a break at 11 and then at 1. I’ve got 32 minutes of “personal time” but there isn’t a men’s toilet on my floor and the one on the floor below seems to be closed for cleaning. Shit.
At 1.30 I get a call from A A Gill. I pretend not to know who he is. Surprisingly he is meticulous in his politeness to me.
Then time for lunch. This is lunch.
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- Wet Markets 21/04/2020
- What are the Seven Wolves? 11/04/2020
- In a Pickle 21/03/2020
- Centuries of Sound 23/10/2017
- I probably have to write something about the bizarre Princess Diana statue garden in Nansha 31/01/2017
- 75 Tracks From 2015 16/01/2016
- The Floor 10/12/2015
- Chinese Condom Brands 08/11/2015
- Britpop Nuggets Part Three: Long Live The UK Music Scene 22/10/2015
- Britpop Nuggets Part Two or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Tolerate Northern Uproar 28/09/2015
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